


Les Petits Morts

by MaddyHughes



Series: FellatioFic [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #FellatioFic, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs With Teeth, Bondage, Choking, DEATH BY BLOW JOBS, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, MURDER BLOW JOBS, Oreos, Prostate Milking, so many blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8353519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: Hannibal Lecter tries to kill Will Graham with fellatio.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peppermintquartz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/gifts), [SuaLeonessa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SuaLeonessa).



> (This fic was live-tweeted on Twitter as I wrote it. Thanks to all the Fannibals who encouraged me. I love you guys.)

Most of the time, surprisingly, they really do get along. But in every relationship, even of soulmates, there’s a line that must never be crossed.

Hannibal finds this line when he discovers that their bed is full of Oreo crumbs.

He carefully brushes them out. Changes the sheets. He says nothing. Love is forbearing; love is kind. He loves Will.

The next night he finds more.

He bides his time. Hannibal is an extremely patient man. He waits until Will goes out for a day, and then spends all afternoon cooking the most exquisite meal he can imagine, and then he throws it all out. It’s not right. He starts again.

And so when Will comes home, Hannibal has only one thing waiting for him on a gold-rimmed porcelain plate. A perfectly constructed cylinder of dark chocolate mousse, bisected in the centre with a white layer of crème patisserie.

Will sniffs the air. ‘It smells like you’ve been cooking dinner,’ he says.

‘Only dessert,’ says Hannibal. ‘I felt like indulging your sweet tooth.’

He gives Will a spoon.

‘Aren’t you having one?’ Will asks.

‘I ate earlier. I made this one just for you.’

Will gives him a searching look. He’s sometimes suspicious, even now. Rightly so: he’s got the scars, and so has Hannibal. But Hannibal often gives him little gifts: food, clothes, drawings, books. He finds a great deal of pleasure in giving Will pleasure.

So he sits down at the table and picks up his spoon.

It’s really good. As in, _really_ good. Hannibal is an incredible chef, but he’s not all that interested in desserts. Probably because there’s less scope to use human flesh in them. You’ve got your _sanguinaccio dolce_ , and your gelatin from human bones, and that’s about it. As far as Will knows, anyway. He’s stopped asking, to be honest.

But this is amazing. It’s creamy and rich and ridiculously chocolatey with a velvety mouthfeel (Will had no idea what ‘mouthfeel’ meant until he started living with Hannibal Lecter). There’s something crunchy scattered across the top that he can’t immediately identify. It’s gritty and sort of cocoa-ish but not really and he knows he should know it, it’s a familiar taste, but it’s out of context. It reminds him of late-night television and crackling cellophane and cold milk and—

‘You crumbled Oreos on the top of this?’ Will says, his mouth half-full.

And then he knows what this is all about. In the split second before Hannibal leans over the table and lovingly slips a hypodermic needle into his arm.

‘Goddammit, Hannib—’ he manages, before he collapses forward onto the table.

When he wakes up, he is still sitting in his dining chair, but now, he’s tied to it. Hands behind his back, strap around his chest, ankles tethered to the chair legs. All of this feels hauntingly familiar. There are two major differences from the last time this happened, in Italy, when Hannibal tried to eat his brain.

One: there is no circular saw or dubious soup on the table.

Two: he is not wearing any trousers.

No. No, wait. There are _three_ major differences.

The third one is that Hannibal Lecter is kneeling in front of him.

‘What the hell, Hannibal,’ says Will. ‘Is this about the Oreos?’

‘What do you think it’s about?’ asks Hannibal, with typical psychiatrist answering-a-question-with-a-question perversity. Will drew a gun on him for doing this very thing, last week. It stopped the questions, but only because it turned them both on so much that neither one could sit down for twenty-four hours afterwards.

‘I think it’s about the Oreos.’ Will heaves a sigh, which isn’t easy. The band across his chest is very tight. ‘They’re just cookies, Hannibal. Sometimes I want to eat plain old food. Something I don’t have to think about, or appreciate, or hear a list of ingredients.’

‘Unbleached enriched flour,’ says Hannibal. ‘Sugar. Palm and/or canola oil. Cocoa (processed with akali). High fructose corn syrup.’ He prounounces each ingredient with dripping contempt, and actually shudders at the last one. ‘Shall I go on?’

‘Please don’t.’

‘Wise decision. It only gets worse.’ Hannibal rocks back on his heels and looks up at Will, consideringly. There’s a gleam in his maroon eyes. ‘Nothing is just cookies, Will. The choices we make about what we put into our body reflect the choices we make about our lives.’

‘I put you into my body on a regular basis,’ replies Will. ‘I’d have thought that would be enough of a life decision for anyone.’

As he speaks those words, he realises a fourth way that this scenario is different from the day in Florence when Hannibal tried to eat his sautéed brain.

Will has an absolutely rock-hard erection. It’s straining the front of his boxer shorts.

Either he’s discovered a new kink for being drugged and tied to a chair, or…

‘Hannibal,’ he says, in as measured tones as he can manage, ‘did you feed me Viagra?’

Hannibal sighs. ‘I was sorry to do that to the food. But in this case, the ends justify the means. And you obviously didn’t notice. Then again: you have ruined your palate with junk food. _In bed_.’

‘You were out at the opera. I was watching _Law and Order_ on Netflix, and—’

Hannibal holds a finger up to Will’s lips. ‘Enough, my love. Enough. You made the life decision. And now…you must suffer the consequences.’

Hannibal’s voice is filled with infinite compassion. In Will’s experience, this is not a good sign.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asks.

Hannibal licks his lips.

Will’s erection gets even harder. Because…those lips. That tongue. Those teeth.

Fuck.

Hannibal raises his hand, and in it is a knife.

‘I knew this was too good to be true,’ Will moans, but instead of stabbing him in the gut like usual, Hannibal carefully, surgically, cuts along the inner seam of his boxer shorts.

He cuts right up to the crotch of the shorts, grazing Will’s balls with the tip of the knife. Will inhales sharply with the slight pain but he’s no less turned on than before. In fact, more. Hannibal continues cutting upwards, in the tented material, his knife edge a mere fraction of an inch from Will’s flesh, until he reaches the waistband. The sharp knife slices through it with ease, and Will’s underwear falls open. It’s still technically on him: one leg of his shorts is intact. But it does absolutely nothing to conceal his straining erection.

‘I just bought those,’ says Will, about his underwear. He’s trying to ignore the fact that Hannibal is very close to his crotch, and he’s still holding a knife. He’s especially trying to ignore the fact that he finds this very exciting.

‘I’ll buy you new ones,’ says Hannibal.

‘I like cotton,’ warns Will. ‘Not silk.’

‘I know,’ says Hannibal, and he bends and carefully, he takes the edge of Will’s boxers between his teeth, and draws the cloth away from Will’s dick to reveal it to the air.

Will is nearly shaking now, with desire. He can feel Hannibal’s breath on his heated skin. ‘What are you planning to do, Dr Lecter?’ he asks. ‘How are you going to make me pay for this supposed sin of eating cookies in bed?’

‘It’s quite simple,’ Hannibal says. Unlike Will, his voice is calm and measured. He looks up into his lover’s eyes from where he kneels between his pinioned legs.

‘I’m going to kill you with fellatio.’

‘You’re going to murder me with a blow job.’ Will states it as matter-of-factly as he can. Because it is ridiculous. Will Graham worked for the FBI, and before that as a homicide detective, for a long time. He never saw anyone murdered by oral sex.

Well…there was that one guy. But surely…

‘You’re not going to bite it off, are you?’

‘Have you forgotten to whom you’re speaking?’ Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

‘I thought you liked my penis.’

‘Oh, I do.’ And he proves it by one long, slow lick along Will’s length. Despite himself, Will groans.

And so it begins.  
 

**Blow Job 1**

 

Actually, Will thinks, with the small part of his mind that is not being driven crazy with pleasure, this is not an unusual blow job, for Hannibal Lecter. It’s leisurely, and savouring, and accomplished, and incredible. Hannibal uses his lips and his tongue and his teeth. He explores every single flavour and texture of Will’s sex, and every single movement gives Will indescribable pleasure.

Hannibal Lecter is extremely good at oral sex.

Sometimes—quite often, actually— Will thinks, _I would have taken up eating human flesh a long, long time ago if I’d known you could do this._

Will understands Alana’s blindness to Hannibal’s true nature better, now that he’s started having sex with Hannibal. There really is a lot a person can ignore when they’re getting spectacular head on a regular basis.

But this blow job, while amazing and mind-blowing, is not more amazing and mind-blowing than Hannibal’s usual performance. It’s certainly not deadly.

It’s just…

Really, really, really, really good.

Really good.

Really…

Oh.

Hannibal abruptly stands up and walks away. He goes to the sideboard and pours himself a snifter of Armagnac.

‘What…the.. _Hannibal_ ,’ gasps Will. His entire body is on the verge of an orgasm. ‘You can’t—you can’t just _stop_.’

Hannibal takes a sip of the fine golden liquid. ‘Can’t I?’

‘You said you were going to kill me with fellatio. Not with sexual frustration. No one ever died of blue balls.’

‘Actually,’ says Hannibal, ‘there was a case in 1843 of death due to vasocongestion. His name was Horace Pringler. It was a popular Victorian slang term: “to pull a Pringler”.’ He takes another sip of brandy.

Will looks down at his dick. It is straining, quivering, wet and glistening from Hannibal’s ministrations. All it would take is one deft touch. He glances at Hannibal, and then he surreptitiously tries blowing air onto himself. The insubstantial touch is enough to increase his pleasure…but not enough to make him climax.

‘Please,’ he says.

Hannibal reaches for a leather-bound book and settles himself in an armchair.

Will strains and squirms against his bonds. _Fucking Hannibal Lecter knows how to tie fucking knots, fuck you Hannibal_. ‘Please, Hannibal. Please.’

‘Do you know what I feel like doing right now?’ says Hannibal conversationally. ‘I feel like eating cookies in bed.’

‘DAMMIT HANNIBAL. I’M NOT GOING TO DIE OF SEXUAL FRUSTRATION BUT I SWEAR, WHEN YOU LET ME GO, THERE WILL BE A RECKONING.’

‘I gave you a sexual stimulant,’ says Hannibal. ‘Even when you climax, you’ll still want more. This orgasm will hardly make a difference, in the scheme of things.’

Will tries to breathe slowly. Even the word ‘orgasm’ makes him desperate. ‘You’re trying to raise my blood pressure?’

‘Your best chance of surviving without succumbing to a fatal heart attack is just to relax. You worry too much, Will.’

Hannibal opens his book.

Will bites back several swear words. He tilts his head back against his chair and he tries to calm down. It’s no good. With every fibre of his being, he still wants to come.

‘You know what to do,’ says Hannibal easily. ‘Put your head back. Close your eyes. Wade into the quiet of the stream.’

But Hannibal can’t resist a chuckle.

 

   
**Blow Job 2**

 

Will squirms in his chair. Thinking about fishing is all well and good when you’re imprisoned in the BSHCI, or bleeding to death on Hannibal’s kitchen floor…but it’s absolutely useless when your fucking serial killer cannibalistic boyfriend refuses to let you have an orgasm. There are all the rods, for one thing. And the nibbles on the bait.

‘Hannibal,’ he groans.

‘Hmm?’ Hannibal doesn’t look up from his book.

‘When you buy me new underwear, it’d better have dogs on it.’

‘It’s sort of irrelevant if you’re dead from fellatio, isn’t it?’

Even the word ‘fellatio’ is a torture. Hannibal’s teeth forming the ‘f’, making a soft dent in his bottom lip. The way his mouth puckers into a soft ‘o’ at the end. Will looks down at his erection, which is showing no sign of going down.

 _Fish guts_ , he thinks. _Fish scales. Leeches. Dammit, think of something that’s not sexy._

Leeches. Blood suckers.

Agh.

With a single swift movement, Hannibal Lecter launches himself from his chair, dropping the book on the floor. He’s graceful as a predator as he sinks to his knees between Will’s parted legs and swallows him whole.

Will climaxes immediately but there is no relief. Hannibal just swallows and keeps on going. The sensation of Hannibal’s mouth on him, his teeth and tongue, his entire goddamn throat, is so overwhelming on his over-stimulated flesh that he feels more pain than pleasure, especially when Hannibal grabs his balls in his hand and squeezes.

It’s voracious and brutal, fast and painful, unrelenting. The stimulant Hannibal’s given him means he stays aroused.

How many times does he come? Hannibal was right: he still wants more. Even though it hurts. Even though his flesh is being rubbed raw and he knows that if he survives this, he probably isn’t going to be able to pee straight for a week.

Will gulps in great swallows of air and writhes in his chair, sweat pouring down his body. His ass rises up off the chair as, against his will, he thrusts up into Hannibal’s mouth and comes again, shouting out a hoarse wordless cry to the ceiling.

Hannibal withdraws his mouth and hands. He sits back on his heels, looking contentedly at his handiwork. Will is still erect; he’s breathing hard, and his pulse is visibly throbbing in his neck. His hair is damp. His eyes are unfocused, his hands clenched.

He is, however, not dead yet.

Hannibal licks his lips.

 

**Blow Job 3**

 

Out of everything and everyone that Hannibal has tasted, Will Graham is by far the most delicious. He wonders, sometimes, why that is—if he somehow knew, from the scent of Will that very first time he met him, that he was fated to fall in love with him. Or if he has grown to appreciate Will’s specific bouquet, as his emotions for him have grown.

It’s a causality dilemma, and one which he takes great joy in contemplating: the aetiology of their passion. But now isn’t the time for heurmeneutics. Now is the time for…

‘You’re exquisite, Will,’ he says. A small bit of Will’s semen has escaped onto his bottom lip and he wipes it away with the back of his hand, and then laps it from his hand with his tongue.

‘Please,’ Will pants. ‘That’s enough now.’

‘I told you I was going to kill you,’ says Hannibal. He settles himself more comfortably on the floor, between Will’s legs.

‘I don’t think I can come any more.’

‘Oh, you can.’ He tilts his head. ‘But hasn’t it occurred to you yet: why don’t I bite it off? It would be considerably quicker to watch you bleeding to death. …And I’d get a nice snack,’ he adds.

‘I assume it’s because you don’t want to lose your plaything.’ Will’s voice is unsteady. ‘And also because it’s the sort of thing Mason Verger would do.’

‘No,’ says Hannibal. ‘I’m not biting off your penis because you would like it too much.’

‘I wouldn’t. That’s…sick.’

So Hannibal smiles. And he describes it to him. The whole process, in great detail. Teeth ripping through aroused flesh. Warm, soothing blood. The spongy texture of the corpus cavernosa, the throbbing life in the dorsal artery and vein. How very delicious Will would taste. How Hannibal would roll each testis in his mouth, savouring, before swallowing. Whole, like an oyster. How he would lap up every single drop of liquid and not allow a single bit to go to waste.

Will listens. God help him, it’s arousing. Such a perfect loving dance of consummation when it’s spoken from Hannibal’s mouth, in Hannibal’s accented, soothing voice.

So much so, that when Hannibal finishes describing his tender chewing, the texture and the flavour and the way that Will will linger on his lips and tongue, he leans forward and does no more than run his tongue lightly over Will’s tip. Graze him with a single, pointed canine.

And Will comes again, with a tortured groan.

 

**Blow Job 4**

 

‘Please,’ Will groans. ‘Stop. I can’t come any more.’

Hannibal finishes licking up what little liquid Will has produced. It’s concentrated, like a reduction skillfully and slowly made by a fine chef. He stands up, stretching his muscles pleasurably, knowing Will would find relief in standing and stretching too, if he weren’t tied down to a hard chair.

‘I think,’ says Hannibal conversationally, ‘that you’ve had enough for the present. I think it’s my turn now.’

For the first time, he removes his jacket. Rolls up his sleeves. And unbuttons his flies.

Will has a more delicate gag reflex than Hannibal does: something that Hannibal learned long ago, when he forced a plastic tube with an ear in it down Will’s throat. Since then, Hannibal has become somewhat of a connoisseur of this reflex in his lover. He has trained it patiently.

He takes Will’s head in his hands and he lovingly guides himself into Will’s mouth.

It occurs to Will to bite Hannibal’s dick off. Of course it does. Hannibal has spent a good deal of time describing this act in loving detail and Will’s imagination is the sharpest part of him. He knows just what it would taste and feel like. He can hear Hannibal’s sharp groan of agony and ecstasy as his teeth meet each other, cutting through the root.

 _It would serve him right if I did_ , thinks Will, his mouth full, Hannibal pushing, pushing deeper.

Then he’s choking, gagging, eyes watering, helpless.

He sees Hannibal gazing down at him. His eyes are unwavering. There’s a compassion there. Will can’t breathe, and this expression is the one thing that makes him think that maybe…

Maybe he’ll live.

But right now he can’t breathe, and he can’t bite, and Hannibal holds his head in a grip both gentle and unbreakable and pushes, right against that spot that stops Will being able to think because he’s too busy choking. Hannibal fills his senses, his mind, his very being, and the world swims and grows black and he can’t breathe at all, he’s dying.

He’s gone.

 

**Blow Job 5**

 

Will comes to with a distinct taste in his mouth and his first thought is, _Hannibal, you bastard_. He knows with utter clarity that Hannibal held back until the very moment that Will lost consciousness, when he slumped helpless and on his way to death under Hannibal’s hands. And that’s when he chose to climax, right then, in Will’s mouth when Will was limp and dying.

Then he let Will live.

Why?

Will’s eyes flutter open and he sees that he’s been moved while he’s been unconscious. He’s lying on his back on the table, now, with his buttocks perching on the edge, and his legs are parted, drawn up and strapped into place with intricacies of knots.

He’s still aroused.

‘Did it…’ he tries, and then has to swallow thickly with his sore throat and try again. ‘Did it feel good to kill me with your dick?’

‘Yes,’ says Hannibal. He’s not standing at Will’s crotch, any more. He’s standing near Will’s head. His trousers are zipped up again, but his jacket is still off. Shirt rolled up to expose corded forearms and strong wrists.

Why is he standing near Will’s head?

Because he wants to show Will something. Will knows how Hannibal works. Knows how he pushes and pushes and pushes just to see what will happen.

Blearily, his mouth full of salt and smear, wanting nothing so much as a glass of cool water and to pass out again, Will forces himself to focus on what Hannibal is holding. A slender rod, with two short prongs on the end. He is carefully, methodically, anointing it with lube.

‘No,’ says Will.

‘I love you, Will,’ says Hannibal. ‘I love you beyond the bounds of pleasure or of pain, of morality and reason. And so if you want me to stop now, I will. I can slit your throat. I can break your neck. I can kill you in any one of a thousand ways, all of them merciful.’

He holds up the rod.

‘Or, I can stimulate your prostate with this modified cattle prod.’

Will groans. A glass of water. Some sleep in a warmed shared bed. Maybe a nice foot rub. Is that too much to ask out of a relationship?

But he knows that when he chose to be with Hannibal Lecter, he didn’t choose the easy, comfortable path. He chose the path of extremes. He chose the option that meant that he had to discover how far he could go, how much he could stand. He chose the life of broken boundaries and sharp edges. Of the thrill of the moment between life and death.

‘Do it,’ he whispers.

Hannibal kisses his cheek. Then he moves between Will’s legs and Will feels the lubricated prod sliding inside him. Hannibal smiles.

‘Good boy,’ he says. ‘This is going to hurt, I’m afraid. It’s going to hurt a lot.’

He bends his head and takes Will inside his mouth.

   
**Blow Job 6**

 

Will has no idea how much time elapses between his losing consciousness, again, and waking up.

But when he wakes up this time, he’s in his and Hannibal’s bed. The sheets are cool and soothing. His wrists and ankles are free. His muscles feel sore, but relaxed and weary and ready to rest. There’s a deep pain inside him, but it’s an echo of past pain, rather than fresh suffering.

His dick is still hard.

Hannibal holds him in his arms. They are both naked. He is stroking down his back, shoulder to hip. His other hand is caressing Will’s hair. His chest rises and falls against Will’s.

‘I’m alive,’ whispers Will.

‘Of course you are,’ says Hannibal. ‘I couldn’t kill you with fellatio. It was a ridiculous idea.’

‘But…you had to try, didn’t you?’ Will nestles his head into Hannibal’s chest. So warm. So safe.

No. It’s very far from safe. But safety is overrated.

‘I still have to try,’ whispers Hannibal. He kisses Will with passion and love, on the lips.

Then he slips downward, underneath the sheets.

Hannibal’s mouth is warm and soft. It caresses and kisses and cherishes. Will closes his eyes and tangles his fingers in Hannibal’s hair and exhales. Slow and loving. He’s the focus of this single-focused man. They’re the single focus of each other, cruelty and kindness, ecstasy and pain, life and death.

He abandons himself willingly to pleasure and although he hasn’t much to give, he gives Hannibal all that he has. At his peak, he whispers Hannibal’s name in broken words, and pulls him up to kiss him and taste himself on his lips.

Peace now. Sleep now. It’s over. He curls up against Hannibal and closes his eyes. In the morning, another battle. And it’s these battles he lives for. What they both live for.

‘Love. One more thing, before you sleep.’ Hannibal isn’t finished. He is gently, insistently, prodding something against Will’s lips. Will opens his mouth and tastes it.

It’s an Oreo.

He opens his eyes to see Hannibal biting into his own cookie. Scattering black crumbs on white sheets.

‘They’re really not that bad,’ says Hannibal.


End file.
